


Behavioral Correction

by drinkbloodlikewine



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Making Out, Matthew is Fit as Hell, Prison, Will is Insecure Sometimes, working out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:36:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2516147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If anyone asked, Matthew would shrug and say he enjoys working out and leave it at that, he decides, sliding the kettlebells back to the ground with a groan.</p><p>And he <i>certainly</i> wouldn’t tell them that now, with rec rooms and exercise yards long behind him, he does it for Will Graham.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Behavioral Correction

**Author's Note:**

> For the lovely [Brownberrypie](http://brownberrypie.tumblr.com/) who commissioned a little bit of smutty-fluff involving Matthew working out, and Will being less-than-thrilled about his own body by comparison to the fit young man with whom he lives. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Interested in seeing more of these two, or any other Hannibal stories? [Commissions are open](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/donate) and we would love to write for you!

If anyone asked, Matthew would tell them that he works out for himself.

If anyone asked _why_ , well - he’d probably ignore them. Tell them to fuck off. Give them the look that quiets most nosy assholes into minding their own business.

But if Matthew felt particularly indulgent - or bored - he would tell them it goes back to prison.

Not the second time.

Not even the first time.

All the way back.

The juvenile detention center, fosterage for the frustrated and disenfranchised, and less a place to correct the behaviors that landed Matthew there than to improve against the mistakes that got him caught in the first place. For the record - and his life is, almost entirely, on the record - he was only caught at each crime once. Breaking and entering sent him into the system. Robbery kept him there. Aggravated assault brought him back into it as an adult of legal age, and manslaughter - and a few other odds and ends, assault, arson, attempted murder - rounds off the list.

For now.

His eyes lose focus on the ceiling, past the movement of his arms across his line of vision, kettlebells heavy in each hand. Matthew still remembers, vividly, the first time an older boy had taken Matthew under his wing. He’d hardly arrived for secure confinement, hardly had time for the shock of court to wear off, and - he grimaces, adjusting his grip - Matthew is certain in retrospect that he must have appeared as little more than prey, flush-cheeked and skinny and shaking with nerves.

The boy had helped him secure a drawer for his things, flipped his mattress to a less stained side for him. And with an assurance that he’d be glad to have a friend there, he’d slung an arm over Matthew’s shoulders and invited him along to the weight room.

He showed Matthew how to use the bench press, and they worked up a good sweat together before the older boy tried to take his payment from Matthew by taking his mouth.

He hadn’t known how hard Matthew had learned to bite defending himself in Baltimore public schools, and there was still blood wet on Matthew’s chin when the officers came for him.

It was a constant that surpassed the tedious variables of prison - which area belongs to which gang, which C.O.s are best bribed, all that shit that never drew more attention than he had to give it. It didn’t matter. One cell block was just like the next, one center or hospital or prison the same as all the others. Some officers were assholes, some were assholes you could work with. Everyone wanted something.

Those rules never changed and so he held little interest in them, and so rather than find his relief not in sleep or sex or securing favors, Matthew sought the stability of exercise, again and again. The push and pull, scream and release, of muscles stretched rigid beneath the predictable press of weights made him strong. Made him fast. Gave him a focus beyond simple survival, itself a full time job, and ensured that anyone thinking of extracting their fun from him would think twice about it, and pay in full if they tried anyway.

If anyone asked, Matthew would shrug and say he enjoys working out and leave it at that, he decides, sliding the kettlebells back to the ground with a groan.

And he _certainly_ wouldn’t tell them that now, with rec rooms and exercise yards long behind him, he does it for Will Graham.

“I think I might get another tattoo,” Matthew announces, letting the screen door bang shut behind him. He doesn’t pay mind to the way Will’s shoulders draw up at the sound, his fingers still against the tying of another lure. Instead, Matthew swings his arms wide, and makes his way to the mirror beside the piano. Shirtless. Virtually pantsless, really, with how he knows his shorts cling to his sweaty legs.

What he _does_ pay mind to is the silence that his proclamation receives, and the slow whisper of a drawer opening as Will seeks out a particular piece for the lure.

“I said I mi-”

“I heard.”

Matthew is quiet for the moment that he watches Will, expression hidden where he focuses on his work, before turning back towards the mirror. He curls his arms, flexing to see the contours carved out by freshly worked muscle, and then brings his hands to his shoulders to tighten his stomach, grinning at the response he sees reflected at him.

“What should I -”

“Matt,” breathes Will, and another silence falls over them.

Another draw opens and closes softly.

And another attempt is made, as Matthew angles himself such as to be framed just so in the mirror from where Will sits. Long fingers skim across his chest, hairless, made smoother still by the sweat beaded on it, and trace lower across the black crescents of his tattoos, over his abs.

Just like he knows Will likes to do.

Which makes it all the more troubling when Will switches off the light on his desk, and stands to leave.

“Will,” blinks Matthew, watching him in the mirror. “What’s up?”

“There’s a mirror in the garage, Matt.”

Matthew considers the truth of it, and grins a little. “But then how would you see me?” The smile fades, faintly, as he catches the unamused look Will shares in the mirror with him before slipping his glasses off and pushing his fingers against his eyes.

“Matt -”

He turns, ambling towards Will, bare feet popping softly against the floorboards. The older man doesn’t raise his eyes again, but merely hums a warning note as Matthew sidles up next to him. The sound is - of course - ignored as Matthew instead sinks his arms around Will’s shoulders, entirely prepared for the way Will immediately tries to twist out of it.

“Hey,” Matthew laughs, “hey. Stop. Will. Jesus - fuck!” He grins as Will finally squirms away - or rather, as Matthew allows him to, unwilling to hold him tight enough to hurt.

Will’s lips thin, before parting on a sigh. “You’re covered in sweat. Now _I’m_ covered in sweat. This was a clean shirt before.”

“Uh huh,” Matthew agrees. “Go on.”

The older man’s eyes sharpen, narrowing incrementally. “It’s annoying, Matt.”

“What is? Specifically.”

“You,” answers Will, curt. “Strutting. Interrupting. Sweating, _on me_.”

“You didn’t mind it this morning.”

“Shut up, Matt,” Will murmurs, but he yields a little, eyes softening in amusement, unable to entirely restrain it.

“You _like_ it when I sweat on you,” Matthew insists, but it’s a misstep, he knows, as soon as Will snorts, derisive.

“Just keep it in the garage,” Will answers, hands up in surrender to the younger man. “Leave me to my quiet rest-home hobbies.”

Matthew blinks - once, twice - before the words process, and he smacks his palm against his forehead, before bringing both down with a slap against the desk. “Is that what this is?” he laughs. “ _Rest-home_ , are you being serious right now? You are. Oh,” Matthew presses his lips between his teeth and releases them slowly. “You are being serious. You realize that’s _fucking absurd_ , right?”

It’s enough for Will, who skirts the edge of his desk away from Matthew, but can’t avoid him on the other side, arms spread wide, and grin crooked across his lips.

“You wanna do this?”

“I don’t, Matt.”

“You think you’re _old_ or some shit.”

“I think you’re blocking my w-”

“And I think you’re not.”

Will finally laughs, the sound tight in his throat and a hand pushed up into his hair. “Age,” he intones, teeth together, “isn’t really debatable. It is what it is. You can’t smirk your way around that.”

And in the instant the words afford him, Will instead tries to slip his way around Matthew, ducking beneath an outstretched arm. He’s fast, though, enough to surprise Will who finds a hand ensnared as he tries to pass, but Will’s reflexes are honed sharp. He turns on his heel, wrist relinquished, and instead slings his free arm around Matthew’s neck, bending the taller man back with a squeeze against his throat.

It happens in an instant, and for a moment more, both simply stand surprised, breath coming a little quicker.

“See?” Matthew finally grins.

“Shut up,” growls Will against his ear, but there’s no rancor in it now as he obliges Matthew, when the younger man turns beneath the arm secured around his neck. Their mouths slip softly together - once, twice - before Matthew tugs Will’s shirt free of his pants, fingers playing beneath the hem of it against his stomach.

“See how strong you are,” the younger man murmurs, but the words break on a laugh as Will catches him against the wall, hands braced to either side of him, and eyes pleasantly dark. “Smarter. Faster. Strong enough,” Matthew tells him, each breath of praise punctuated by a kiss, before he ducks their foreheads together, and tilts Will’s chin towards him with a grin.

“All I’ve got,” Matthew laughs, “are these.” Will’s fingers are brought to the younger man’s stomach, where they curl against the warm ridges of muscle, heated from exertion, from the slick layer of sweat that coats black ink beneath his skin. “And they’re pretty much yours anyway.”

He had learned better methods than brute force in confinement. Had been shown time and again that the key to avoiding unfortunate situations was less a matter of overpowering it through strength, and more a matter of ingenuity.

A new sort of correction, Matthew considers as Will’s kiss sinks against him again, although this is unlikely to be what the facilities who held that name intended.

Will’s fingers snare the waistband of the shorts riding high on Matthew’s narrow hips, but his hands are caught, held, turned, until it’s Will’s back against the wall. With a low sound, he holds his hands obediently in place above his head as Matthew makes quick work of the buttons on his shirt, the fly of his trousers, and, grinning, presses his palm inside Will’s thin cotton boxers.

“And this,” the younger man adds, nuzzling into a languid kiss. “This is fuckin’ _fantastic_.”

“Jesus,” shivers Will, nearly dropping his arms - and to his knees - as Matthew works a fierce hand against him. He could do more, go to the floor and kneel in front of Will with his mouth parted and ready, turn them around again and let Will have him against the wall instead, but the flush burning hot across Will’s cheeks is perfect just from there. Glasses skewed sideways across his nose, hair curled wild into his face, Matthew lavishes kisses against the older man, and works a steady rhythm inside his pants.

It isn’t long before Will begins to protest, hands pressed hard against Matthew’s chest.

“M-Matt -”

“Mister Graham.”

“Oh,” Will groans, shuddering roughly. Matthew steals the sound that escapes beneath a kiss, pleased - always - but the older man’s reaction to that name in particular. “N-No, Matt -”

“Mister Gr-”

“Stop,” laughs Will, hand trembling as he presses his fingers to Matthew’s mouth to silence him. He is overcome, somehow entirely loose and wholly tense all at once, his body resting forward beneath the arm Matthew has tucked around him, hips rolling against the hand that works inside his trousers.

“Matthew,” Will tries again, “I’m going to -”

Thumb pressed beneath the head, Matthew’s brows raise expectantly. His rhythm quickens, quick jerks now up across the leaking tip, where his thumb slips to glide instead, finding the slit there and teasing against it.

Will hisses a curse beneath his breath, and the word breaks into a groan that rattles his entire body, pulsing in time with the release of heat - wet and slick - across Matthew’s fingers. It’s a matter of minutes, all told, but Matthew knows well enough by now what the man likes. How to be touched - how hard, how quickly, that he likes it against walls and standing until he’s near collapse, that he especially prefers it - Matthew grins against his cheek - after Matthew has been working out.

“Why?” Will sighs, heart hammering in this throat, and lungs pulling up short from catching an entire breath. He settles his arms over Matthew’s shoulders, and lets his weight rest heavy against him. “Why me? You could have _anyone_.”

Matthew turns the question over for a moment, and with interest, realizes it’s never been something he’s considered, since the time they were separated by only inches of steel and odds far more distant than that.

He draws a breath, and shrugs, eyes lightened with amusement. “Haven’t found a better fuck, yet,” he teases, laughing as Will drives an arm into him. “Because I like you, Mister Graham.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” agrees Matt, humming his pleasure at the simplicity of it.

If anyone asked, he would tell them that he does it for himself.

In a lot of ways, though not all, he does.


End file.
